My Birthday, Your Birthday, Whose Birthday?
by Honour Society
Summary: Three birthdays. All on one day. Who knows what to expect? Mix in some bruises, watermelon, Manic Panic and a Beatles song and you've got yourself a fanfiction for the wonderful and talented, Grace! Light Up The Night challenge fic. Mild cursing.


**Disclaimer:** Nothing in this fic belongs to me, it is all the work of Lisi Harrison, with the notable exception of the plot. I also don't own any brands or people mentioned, thanks.

**Author's Note: **This fan fiction was written for the Light up the Night challenge. Hope you enjoy this, Grace (hellogoodbyeTM)!! Maybe this off-the-wall/unique/"special" pairing will catch on? Reviews are welcome, but mainly I'd like to hear from you, Grace! Oh, and this is set the summer before ninth grade. Reviews are welcome.

**Prompts I used in the making of this fic**: A secret spot where everybody goes, shampoo with blue hair dye in it and watermelon (yummmmmmmmy!)

**My Birthday, Your Birthday, Whose Birthday? **

_-A_ Clique _OneShot written by Honour Society-_

Layne awoke with a start at the sound of her brother, Chris, screaming and knocking on her bedroom door so hard he could've woken the dead.

"Shut _up_, Chris!" she called, blinking rapidly to adjust to the sudden burst of sunlight streaming in through her open curtains. It must've been noon or maybe later — if there was one thing she was good at it was sleeping.

Taking that as her approval to enter, he stormed through the door, slammed it shut behind him and took a seat on the foot of Layne's Target-bought, polka dotted bedspread.

"So," he began, nervously taking a deep breath and fiddling with his Zac Efron-esque bangs that had yet to grow in. "Massie's having this sort birthday-cum-_bon voyage_ party, since she's spending a semester in France, at her house. Uh, I was wondering if you wanted to go with me? You know, be my wingman and crap?"

"Wow. I was not expecting that bombshell on my birthday."

Chris' brow furrowed like he was concentrating on a particularly difficult algebraic expression. "Oh. Yeah. Right. So, you're not going then?"

Under normal circumstances, Layne would've said NO! GET OUT OF MY ROOM AND OF COURSE I'M NOT GOING TO THE BIRTHDAY-CUM-_BON VOYAGE_-CUM-WHATEVER PARTY OF MY MORTAL ENEMY AND YOUR MAYBE, SORTA GIRLFRIEND! A THOUSAND TIMES NO!

But these were not normal circumstances.

For one, Layne's period had arrived right on time last night. For another, Massie's party might prove to be the perfect time to wreck some kind of havoc on the perfect brunette. And lastly, Chris' heart had been broken into a million tiny pieces by Fawn-Wearer-of-Calvin-Klein, dropped on a silver platter and rearranged a bit to present to Massie Block, herself, the one and only. So, Layne owed it to Chris (if no one else) to show up at this girl's party, faux smile, grab some red velvet cake and then trot out of there on the soles of her Converse.

Siblings stick together.

"Sure. Why not?"

With a catlike yawn and a stretch of her gangly arms, Layne Abeley pulled herself out of bed and felt the cool hardwood flooring kiss her feet, as if to say hello.

Chris nodded his head once, grinned a toothy grin, and walked out of her room and across the hall to his. She wondered, with some sorrow, if he was going to go think about Fawn. Or Massie. Or both.

_None of those girls are good enough for him._ She picked up her barely-used boar bristle hair brush and start combing out her waist-length brown tangles. Up or down? She held her hair up, in some resemblance of a Sienna Miller messy-chic bun and wondered if it would be "enough" for Massie's sure-to-be-swanky soiree.

Then, forgetting that idea, she let her hair down and it fell about her heart-shaped face in what she hoped to be sexy waves.

Layne shot a pointed look at the Barbie-pink box of socially-acceptable, girlie-girl makeup bought for her by Charlotte Wood, Layne's mom who lived in New Jersey. Charlotte, as Layne preferred to call the woman who had missed both her and Chris' childhoods, had sent Layne a pink plastic box full of pink makeup from Sephora, a hundred-dollar A&F giftcard and _A Girl's Guide to Growing Up _by: Dr. Charlotte Wood for last Christmas.

Layne's mother just so happened to be a therapist, specializing in teens. It was bizzare, considering she had little-to-no contact with two full-fledged teenagers who just so happened to be her kids. Chris had gotten the matching book with a crisp blue spine: _A Boy's Book to Being a Man_.

For a second, instead of feeding herself ideas about feminism, Layne lifted open the box's lid and picked up a scary, almost scalpel-like silver tool.

_Holy crap._ Layne's green eyes went wide. _What's this thing for?_

* * *

"Duh, Kuh-laire." Massie rolled her amber eyes in a look of pure boredom and _Gawd_-this-girl-is-stupid. "It's an eyelash curler."

Claire's chipped nails and calloused palms (from a certain amount of manual labour Massie had put her up to the day prior, insisting that it was almost her birthday and she was leaving soon and she had _just _gotten her nails manicured) skimmed the surface of the gleaming silver shu umera eyelash curler she had picked up from Massie's purple trunk of makeup.

"Oh." The petite blonde's heart sank. _Of course, Claire, _she mentally kicked herself, _how could you be so stupid to not know the reason behind Massie's inhumanly long eyelashes? Did you just think it was a genetic quirk you'd missed? Stupid, stupid girl. _

"No worries. Have it if you want. These lashes are one-hundred-percent _au naturel_." Massie winked dramatically, showing off her supposedly-natural dark lashes that only managed to draw more attention to her already attention-grabbing amber eyes.

All month long, ever since Massie found out that a combination of her _ah-mazing _French marks and William Block III's deep pockets had gotten her accepted into a boy-free preparatory school in France (where all the teachers spoke English as a second language), just outside of Paris, French phrases had been slipping into her English. It was annoying to say the least. But Massie set the rules and if she said Paris was 'in', then it was 'In'. Way In.

It was really an imperfect time to go. She had so many unresolved problems and her New Age-y, yoga-adoring, self help book-reading mother, Kendra, had said that she should "tie up loose ends."

So far, all ends were still quite loose.

After going through several of Claire's "looks fine," as ratings, Massie relented signed on to IM to see if Alicia was willing to exchange ratings over webcam.

Double-clicking on the "Webcam" icon on her desktop and opening a box that showed film her unfairly pretty _visage_, she invited Alicia Rivera to a webcam chat. Alicia accepted.

"So, Leesh, I need some advice." Turning half-around, Massie glared at Claire, who was twirling at her unwashed hair. It was mid-afternoon and despite Massie having been to Jakkob's and back, Claire was still clad in a faded University of Central Florida tee and a pair of cheap flannel pants.

"Shoot." It was plain to see that Alicia wasn't truly _there _and, even in her silk printed Anna Sui thigh-length dress, "vintage" leather sandals, dangling earrings and stack of white-gold bangles, she was just going through the motions. Her mind was somewhere else.

_Hopefully it's off thinking about my party,_ Massie huffed to herself. She was angry, but her charming smile said otherwise. In all her years at the Westchester Country Club, she had perfected the art of faking happiness. It was easy.

But, like movie glass, it was just waiting to crack apart into a billion shards.

"Rate me."

* * *

"You look like shit."

Cam Fisher raised his dark eyebrows up and down, gazing into the mirror of the bathroom he shared with his brother, Harris, and their father. One of Cam's mom's "deal breakers," with moving into their middle class home was that she have a private bathroom. "I will not share one with three boys," she had said when Cam was too young to care how many bathrooms a house had.

He turned around, wearing only a pair of plaid boxers, to see a smirking, fully-dressed Harris Fisher crossing his taut arms over his chest.

"Get a life and stop killing me inside."

"Whatever." Harris' green eyes rolled and he took a step back. "I _was _going to help you get all swankied up for that Block-chick's party. _But_, if you don't want my help that's fine by me."

Harris knew he had hit a nerve, but he was content to watch his younger brother squirm for a couple more minutes.

"C'mon Harris. I'm…sorry…it's just…my birthday…and you know."

"Ah, I see."

"You do?" Cam smiled with relief and he felt all the muscles in his back and forehead relax. Harris was going to let up and give him a break. For once.

"It's a girl."

Of course it _was _a girl, but Cam would never, ever, in a bazillion years admit that his brother was right.

"I never did figure out your type, C. I've got it down to a system. Every chick on this planet fits into one of ten groups. I'm pretty sure your Dream Girl is in one of four of those." Harris put his knuckle to his chin, thoughtfully. Several strands of brown hair (lighter than Cam's, but still "dark brown" by any standards) fell into his eyes and he brushed them away with his other hand.

"You can't be serious."

"Oh, but I am. Very. Very, very serious."

And what scared Cam was that he knew it was true. Harris Martin Fisher, Cam's one and only brother, truly believed, with all of his cold marble heart, that there were only ten types of girls in the world.

Instead of offering a helpful yes or a snaky no, Cam just shrugged his shoulders and bent down on his haunches to rifle through the cupboard for some shaving cream or other image-enhancing products.

"The first of the four: Sweet Innocent Girl. Usually blond-haired with big eyes. Maybe wears a lot of pink or counts it as her favourite colour. Daydreams. Likes doing 'artsy' things like photography or watercolour painting or pottery.

"Number two. Mysterious Goth/Unpopular Girl. Has more fingers than friends. Dyes her hair. Likes black and writing angsty poetry. Possibly in love with a fictional character.

"Three: Miss Popular. Looks outweigh brains, but she's spunky. You know. Can banter. Dresses in clothes that her Daddy bought her with his members-only credit card.

"And finally, the last girl in Cam's Search for His Dream Girl. Thanks for participating. That Quiet Girl who no one knows her name but everyone thinks is secretly hot. Like take off her glasses and ka-_pow_. She's dating material."

"I'm in awe," Cam deadpanned, tossing a grey bottle to Harris for inspection.

"No dude. Get the grey tub-thing with the blue stripes. So. I was right, wasn't I? What's her name?"

* * *

"Layne! Chris! So _good _to see you!" Massie's greeting oozed happiness and pleasure, but Layne was no fool. She knew the sincerity was false and only for Chris' sake.

"And I'm _so happy _to see you, too, Massie." Layne impatiently crossed her arms over her black garage-band tee and acid wash denim vest. Nothing was worth happy small talk with Massie Block. Nothing.

Chris delved right into the 'oh, such nice weather,' and 'what's up?' chitchat while Layne scurried off to the banquet table, looking for Claire, her only friend who took it upon herself to attend parties hosted by BOCD's elite.

Instead of bumping into the bubbly blonde however, she elbowed a scrawny girl with poorly dyed Kool-Aid-blue hair up in a bun, a pink Yankees cap covering most of her hair. Only a few stray strands of blue peeked out from under the rim.

"Sorry," Layne muttered, as Blue Hair Girl rubbed the spot where Layne had elbowed her. Oh. She had been holding a juicy slice of watermelon and, well, she wasn't anymore.

"Oh, God. What else can go wrong?" Blue Hair Girl lifted the cap high enough so Layne could see the blue eyes on the bridge to Tearsville, a button nose scrunched up in irritation and usually rosy cheeks paler than Layne had ever seen them.

"Holy crap, Claire. What happened?"

"There's nothing holy about crap," quipped Olivia Ryan from somewhere behind the two girls. Claire was now starting to sniffle, ready to crank out some salty tears at a moment's notice. In between heaving sobs and muffled coughs, Claire hiccupped, "Massie Block happened."

While a bored-looking server in a white button-down and black dress pants went off to fetch some napkins to try and get out the huge pinkish stain in the middle of Claire's grey oversized hoodie, Claire blinked away some of her tears.

After wiping away her single last tear with a lotion-infused Kleenex from Layne's Sunshine Tours bag, Claire told Layne the whole sordid story.

"Well, Massie was already really pissed off at me this morning, 'cuz I was running late and I wanted to finish up my History paper instead of preparing for her birthday party, so she slipped some Manic Panic into my Pantene bottle. And now," Claire wiped her nose on the torn sleeve of her hoodie, "my hair is blue!"

Layne fought the pressing urge to laugh in the face of the pathetic blue-haired girl with the stained men's hoodie. The waiter had yet to come back and it was obvious he wouldn't be coming any time soon. For the time being, Claire would stay the token loser of the party, waiting, as per usual, on someone who didn't care about her one bit.

"It's not so bad." But it was. It really was. And Layne didn't want to deal with a weepy Claire and a bitchy Massie on her fourteenth birthday.

* * *

"Ugh. I totally don't want to deal with a weepy Claire and a bitchy Layne on my fourteenth birthday." Massie twirled a red-and-white straw around in her can of Coke Zero, waiting for her clique's agreement.

Once they all nodded, she flipped open her phone-of-the-month (frowning at her background image of Dempsey's arm around her beaming self, prior to their maybe-break up) and double-checked for any missed calls. There were none. Well, none except for the pleadings of LBRs, describing in detail how AWESOME the party was.

_Just junk mail_, she hummed to herself.

The of-the-moment DJ spun a cool, echo-y remix of Massie's favourite Beatles song, Can't Buy Me Love, and her eyes scanned the room with the harsh vision of a too-cool-to-care model scout for the perfect boy to dance with. One with good looks and popularity. A complete HART with whom she had no pesky, underlying feelings for.

_Where the hell is Dempsey anyway?, _she wondered absentmindedly before spotting the perfect guy to dance with. Sweet, hot, good dance skills, but no drama. _Perfect_.

"Oh, Cammie!"

* * *

"Oh. Massie. Hi." Cam tried to smile but he knew his effort wasn't appreciated. It was his goddamned birthday and he should be out with the guys, playing soccer or going out for pizza at that place with the name he could never remember that was owned by Griffin Hastings' father.

"So, do you wanna dance?"

Cam was just about to spit out a "yes" to Massie's desperate need to be seen with someone who she deemed worthy, when he realized that it wasn't the amber-eyed brunette who'd asked him the question.

Her hair was brunette, yes. But her eyes? The purest green Cam had ever seen.

"Layne Abeley. Dance. Now. Let's go," she said through gritted teeth.

Massie had stomped off to find Kemp or Derrick, looking very affronted, but Cam didn't really care. He was a little preoccupied with the green-eyed girl he'd never before talked to unless it was a "hi" or "bye" when he was picking up Claire for a date.

And for the life of him, he couldn't remember her name.

"It's Layne." Green-eyed girl now known as Layne smirked.

"That's what I thought. Bet you don't know my name though." The corners of Cam's mouth lifted in a smirk that matched her own.

"Cam Fisher. I have a good memory. Neurologists used to run tests on me when I was a kid, you know, to see if I had superhuman, _Mutant X_ powers."

Cam nodded and stopped dancing as Can't Buy Me Love ended. "If you could have any superpower what would it be?"

"Flight, so I could get the hell out of the party."

He felt the same way and told her so. They went on to talk about how, coincidences of all coincidences, it was both of their birthdays and neither of their parents were big on family celebrations.

"I think all that stuff ended," he said with a secret smile, "when Harris climbed on the dinner table at my fifth birthday party and sat on the cake."

For what felt like hours the two talked and talked about coincidences, coconuts, (spontaneous) combustion and _CSI _(Cam loved it; Layne hated it).

It was all Layne could do not to start belting out that annoyingly catchy _High School Musical _tune, "Start Of Something New." It was cheesy and oh-so-Disney, but it summed up her feelings quite nicely.

And then she remembered Claire.

* * *

"Why doesn't anyone remember me?" Claire whined as she half-tripped over a smooth stone. The New Pretty Committee, plus all the cute guys they could wrangle up (Derrick, Kemp, Griffin, Plovert) were heading out to their secret spot. A long-deserted pool house, complete with a pool far too murky and gross to swim in, just behind the lush green forests surrounding the Block estate.

Claire thought she heard Dylan say, "There's nothing memorable about you," but she couldn't be sure. She couldn't risk losing her only friends because of her unreliable hearing.

_Only friends. How pathetic_, Claire thought, thinking about Layne in particular.

She had seen _them_ dancing and laughing and talking. Everyone had.

Bruises and nicks dotted Claire's exposed legs, (she was wearing Old Navy denim short-shorts) and she had an epiphany. An epiphany which managed to sum up all her feelings about Cam dumping and Layne's betrayal. _Some kinds of bruises never heal_.

* * *

"These bruises are _nawt_ evergoing to heal," Massie pouted as she pointed to the identical yellowing bruises on her skinny knees. She was dressed to the nines in a sparkly beige minidress and real diamond studs. On her feet were a pair of Derrick's old skate shoes, as he made it a point to be "mature," and gentlemanly, walking through the woods in bare feet, carrying Massie's Jimmy Choos.

"You should see some of the bruises I've gotten from walking with no shoes. Your bruises are invisible, compared to these." To make a point, Derrick held up his bare foot for Massie's inspection. She wrinkled her nose in distaste but giggled nonetheless.

"We're here," Kristen finally said, gazing at the blue pool house with the chipped paint and wet Adirondack chairs and a caved-in roof like it was the most beautiful thing she'd ever seen.

"The last time I was down here on my birthday," Massie reminisced, "was when I was four. Can you believe it's been ten years? Can you believe I'm going to France in eight days?"

"No," Derrick admitted, his voice a hushed whisper into Massie's ear. It sent chills up her spine, like how things used to feel before Skye's party. She hadn't felt like that in forever. Not with Dempsey.

"You have freckles on your ears."

"Thanks for that! You totally ruined the moment!" Massie cried, moving out of Derrick's range of touch.

"So you admit it, then? We 'totally' had a moment?" Derrick teased, although deep inside they both knew they were being dead serious.

The PC members had scurried off somewhere to play Spin The (Perrier) Bottle and had left their alpha in the hands of a monster. A monster by the name of Derrick Harrington.

"Maybe. It doesn't matter, though, right? In a week I'll be on another continent on you'll be laughing on the lap of a blonde eighth-grader," she huffed, running her hands over her bare arms again to fight the biting wind.

"Aw, don't be like that, Block. It was a…momentary lapse in judgement. I was pissed, okay? You said you'd go with me to the party and you show up with another guy? What I supposed to do? Smile and dance with you and pretend you weren't going to go off with _Chris _when the song changed?"

He _did_ have a valid point.

"Momentary lapse in judgement?" Massie suggested weakly, as Derrick dropped his frayed, beat-up denim jacket around her shoulders. She accepted it, sliding her arms into the slightly too-big jacket. If felt just right.

"Thanks."

"No problemo."

"This is when the guy leans in, kisses the girl and sweeps her off her feet," Massie hinted, grinning just a tad, but her amber eyes glowing with sincerity.

Derrick's chocolate brown eyes lit up and he kissed her. Massie would've described it in detail, how nice it felt, how perfect, how lovely and everything else a kiss should but, for a single precious moment, her mind melted into nothingness. And all she could think of was the now and how in the now she was kissing her mortal enemy.


End file.
